"No," Brice said. "They wanted money."
"Like always the ambulance never come," the clerk said staring up at Brice. "Few of my friends used to come in here to smoke little rocks to mellow out from the pain of living. Now I don't want to take a puff. If I do, it's like another dead kid for it."
"Why did you have those crack bottles up there?"
"Mrs. Z threatened to kill me," he said. "She offered my friends and me free sample of crack and the tools to use with the drug. Then I wanted out. It worsened my friends' minds and bodies. I can't get out."
"Who is Z?"
The clerk finished up the treatment of the wound and returned behind the glass. Stripping the tape off boxes, he used his pricing gun to stamp prices on vodka liquor bottles inside them. Things got muddle when kids couldn't be safe or feel it. Men were left helpless. Brice limped to the back of the store, grabbing a pair khaki pants folded near the oversize t-shirt. Poisonous crack cocaine disguised itself as an illegally drug. Truth was it destroyed.
He couldn't meet Officer Newberry with blood stain clothes. He didn't ask if the clerk would make a police report. The guy had his load of troubles.
"Where did you learned to treat a wound? In the military? Brice paused. "Thanks." The clerk kept stamping. The phone ranged, he answered it emerging himself into the conversation. He might haven't heard him. This guy had been neither good or bad just a human being who needed help to deal with his pain a better way. Waving him off, he lifted the bottles two at a time out of the box shelving them on the wall.
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